


Never Make your Move too Soon

by karrenia_rune



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-27 00:59:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15013250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrenia_rune/pseuds/karrenia_rune
Summary: Billy and Vasquez are very quiet when they play cards; so quiet that it freaks everyone out.





	Never Make your Move too Soon

Disclaimer: The Magnificent Seven (2016) belongs to its producers and creators as do the characters who appear here or are mentioned.  
They are not mine and are only 'borrowed' for the purposes of the story. For round 23 of small Fandoms Fest.

 

"Never Make your Move too Soon"-

 

Goodnight Robicheaux had still not quite figured out what had possessed to travel to this remote town at least a day's ride from Rose Creek; it was possible he had gone there to drown his troubles in drink, or at the very least; a change in scenery. 

Whatever the case may be, here he was and the limited vistas of the town might be all he would ever see again if the odds were not in his favor.

Yellow River Creek, a town situated between the Yellow River and one of the main trading posts for the still relatively new Pony Express boasted one main drag, a church, a trading post, a town of 500 souls and a barber shop, and a saloon that also double as a rooming house.

 

He cursed his luck and Vasquez who was even now in the process of cutting the deck at the cherry wood table covered with a burgundy cloth that shimmered in the lighting of the fancy chandliers that had obviously come from some fancy estate back East. 

The whiskey might have been a reason for his lapse in judgement, but it also had to do with the man currently sitting across, one Haresh Clay Morrison, the seventh son of a seventh of an railroad magnate who had come out West like so many to make his fortune. He also happened to be the one who was keeping them in this quaint but troublesome town.

Thirteen was not his lucky number, and why hadn't Billy talked him out of that thirteenth swallow of bitter, burning whiskey Goodnight still had not figured out. 

For his part, Vasquez, studied the lay of the cards, and the expressions of the man seated around the table, and allowed a thin sliver of a smile to crease the corners of his mouth; he had always believed that a man did not have to really on Lady Fortuna to smile upon him: a man made his own luck.

That was exactly he intended to do here no matter what Goodnight and his partner, Billy Rocks, might have to say upon the matter. It really did not make a bit of a difference on whose fault it was that they were stuck here until the outcome of the game; all that mattered was winning the game.

Once the deck had been cut Vasquez began to deal out the cards, the game was Euchre. some fancy French word, that, "Cut for trump, Mr. Rocks," Clay instructed. "Let us be clear on the rules, there will no table talk between partners and will go in counter-clockwise order of play."

"Why?"

"It is how they play in Europe," Clay replied.

Play began, and for the first few hands Goodnight was concerned that he would never collect enough points in the initial rounds to score high enough to win. 

What Clay intended to do with them if they lost did not bear thinking upon. The man was about as easy to read as the lines on a tree would indicated its age.

Clay, at one point, asked, "Would you like a cigar, or perhaps another glass of whiskey?"

"No, no, that's all right," Goodnight replied. "Billy, do you want anything? Water, tea, perhaps?"

Billy indicated with a curt nod of his head that he would like more water.

Clay indicated to the man at the bar to bring over another pitcher of water, to refill the other glasses with whiskey on the rocks. Mr. Robicheaux, if you do not mind my asking; is your man a mute. Why does he not speak for himself?"

"It's just his way," Goodnight answered Clay's question.

"Mr. Vasquez?" 

"I'm good."

Clay's man at the bar brought over a silver tray piled high with a steaming cup of tea and small scones and the promised pitchers of water, and then withdrew as unobtrusively as he had come.

 

*****  
The game continued: 

Once, once bidding had finished and he thought he had high enough value cards to score points he was over-bid and only collected one of three tricks he had anticipated on winning. 

Vasquez was very quiet, his usually mobile face, set in an expressions little of his thoughts or emotional state. Goodnight would be lying to himself if he said that this did not freak him out more than a little. The man was never this quiet; it was a marked difference from trying to get him to shut up in other situations; so why the sudden change?

Billy also was quiet but then it took a great deal to alter his composure. Goodnight smiled inwardly and thought 'Gives a whole new definition of a poker face.'

At this point in the game luck seemed to swing in their direction and the pile of money they all had wagered began to accummlate and with a subtle shift in the titlt of his head or in his posture indicated to Goodnight that things were looking up for them.

Billy moved his booted foot in such a manner which indicated his acknowledgement. 

Vasquez sneezed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his unoccupied hand. He stared at his cards trying to see a winning combination. He had not known going into the game exactly what the stakes were, just that his presence was required. 

Vasquez had always taken the same approach to gambling as he'd taken to most things in his life: Dive head-first and be damned to hell what the odds were. Still, he too, thought there was more things off with their host than just his stuffed shirt Eastern mannerisms and condescending attitude.

Clay, at this point, whose smug posture had given way to something more annoying, finally announced, you might as well fold now, Mr. Robicheaux; for I fail to see how you will win the last two rounds. And when you lose, I will claim to your property."

"My gun and my coat are hardly worth all this hoopla!" Goodnight was so startled and idiginant that he nearly stood up from his chair, the legs of making a scrapping sound on the wooden floor of the saloon.

"I meant your servant," replied Clay evenly.

"He is not property, and he is certainly not my servant," Goodnight exclaimed.

Then perhaps he is a runaway from the U.S railroad building project."

"I am offended, Sir! And I will not stay here a moment longer! Billy we're leaving, and Mr.Vasquez is, too. Let us be glad that no actual money was wagered."

"Stay, it will be worth your while," Clay stated.

"We're leaving," Vasquez said, drawing out a very sharp knife. "That clear enough, for ya?"

"As crystal," Clay replied in clipped tones. Do not let the door hit you on the way out."

"Don't ever try this again, Clay and if our paths cross again...." Goodnight trailed off with a significant glance at the other man. "Don't press your luck."

Once outside Billy shook his head and reached up to run his hands through his hair. "That was weird. I never played quite like that before. I hope I never have to do that again."

"Amen to that, brother," Vasquez echoed him.


End file.
